Meltwater - Writing - Barrow Boy

The tin can lay on the shelf, rattling strangely. A faint humming could be heard, seeming to come from inside it. Phil Jones stood barefoot wearing only his boxer shorts, transfixed by the hip-hop motion of the can across the surface. He studied its label, which read 'Catering Size Baked Beans'. The label was the same mouldy and pinkish brown colour as the rest of the can. It struck him that it was large for a tin of beans, its size reminded him more of a large paint container, a comparison that was further echoed by its resealable lid.

He was unaware how much time passed whilst studying the can, and only when its motions stopped for a moment was he able to take his eyes of it and survey his surroundings. He was stood in an old caravan, which had been converted into a fruit stall. It felt familiar, yet there was something not quite right about it. He turned his back on the dancing can, and looked out of the front opening of the stall. In front of him was the shelved display of large mounds of fruit and veg, beyond which lay a small gap and a red brick wall.

There was no other way out of the stall, the only door out was on his left. He tried it but it was locked. The shelves around the inside walls of the barrow were full of produce, like the front display; the only fruit free space was where the can stood. His only way out was to climb onto the waist high frontal display and crawl across the mounds of fruit and veg. As he started to, he was shocked to see that the front of the display shelf was shrouded in barbed wire, and in amongst the fruit was much broken glass and discarded razors.

He had seen nothing outside the stall except for the red brick wall, so with great care he stuck out his head through the open front hatch, leaning on the display in the places which were glass free. He looked first at the brick wall in front, as he raised his head, the wall floated ever upwards without end, as it did downwards. He was shocked, a sentiment that turned to horror as soon as he looked sideways. Beyond the span of the wall lay a dead street of barricaded, barbed wired, terraced houses, which skewered at awkward angles into infinity on either side.

The ashen grey houses contrasted strongly with the crimson peach sky. His terror turned to melancholy as he studied the desolate scene and its infinite perspectives. A sudden white noise flash of lightening made him wince and pull himself in from his leaning position on the stalls front display. The thunder clouds dissolved into the roofs of the houses in a myriad of rainbow candy floss colours, the translucent reflections shone outwards from the shiny wet house tops, and steadily the rain increased its downpour.

Phil scanned his mind for a reason why he should be trapped in such a foreboding place, but couldn't find one. As he ruminated on his position, a movement caught the corner of his eye. He turned in the eerie light, and examined the shelves, something moist was happening to the many different fruits in their baskets. He looked closer, into the piss green display cases that held the quivering fruits that surrounded him. An instinctive movement made him step back, as he felt his tea rise to meet his teeth. All the fruit was rotten, the movement was caused by the millions of pulsating and writhing maggots who had turned the once fresh food into a putrid mess. The sudden backwards motion knocked over one of the baskets on the shelf. The once golden delicious apples flooded over the enclosed floor of the barrow, spilling their parasites everywhere. The sight of the green and white carpet beneath his bare feet caused his tea to pass his teeth and cover the floor of wriggling white larvae with a steaming bile mush. He started to panic, he felt that he couldn't stay there any longer, but he was trapped. There was no escape. The door was locked and the front escape was too sharp to crawl out over.

He stood transfixed, listening to the squelching of the fruit and the humming of the can, a cold sweat coursing his brow. Above the noise of the stall and his techno beating heart came a new sound, far away, the sound of approaching footsteps. At that the can on the shelf began to behave more erratically, jumping and vibrating with a frightening intensity, keeping him from looking out to see whose footsteps they were. He turned to study the can, entranced by the dance it made and the buzz saw noise that came from within it.

He had to look inside, not wanting to know, but driven on by that crazy compulsion of curiosity which killed the cat. He stepped towards the can. Each step extinguished a thousand fat maggot lives, with a faint sex thrust squelch. Shaking he picked up the moulding can. He pulled the top off, or rather, loosened it enough for the internal pressure to explode it off across the stall. The can spewed out a fierce cloud of buzzing blackness, filling the air around him. A swarm of fat flies buzzed about him, each staring at him with their complex eyes.

The mass of flies around his head was so dense he thought that he had been blinded. Some of them tried to fly into his mouth, some up his nostrils and others examined their young on the shelves. The rest kept a close orbit about his head. The one thing they had in common was that they all called his name. They screamed his name with the fury of a thousand Marshall amps on full overdrive, delivering the sound of a baby being grated with sandpaper and salt. The noise sent paralysing tremors down the length of his vertebrae. They called his name with the portents of an ominous message, and then in fuzzy unison they spoke. "Phil, she'sss coming, she'sss coming, you know who she isss and what she wants. She'ssss coming to make you do what you hatess, she'ss coming Phil, you better run, she'ss coming for you, she'ss coming she'ssss coming."

The taunted him for a moment longer, then flew out en mass through the front hatch. It took him a while to regain his senses, the realisation of the flies' message becoming gloomily clearer, knowing who she was, and that they were her footsteps getting closer from the infinite street. The thought of her sent icy pins down his already frozen spine, his nerve endings screaming like banshees across his body. She was the stall's owner. Her steps got closer, until the noise of the maggots was obliterated, noisy footsteps echoed from the walls of the dead street that ran for ever, creating sonic waves that rolled off into eternity along the terraced houses that defied the laws of single point perspective.

Then the footsteps stopped, and there was a new noise, the sound of a bunch of keys being rattled on the other side of the door. They were fumbled with until one was found that fitted the lock. In turn the key was placed into its receptacle with a noise that cut like a knife on heat. The handle started to jerk like a room full of fitting epileptics. Hell was on the other side of the door, the stall's owner was there. Phil felt his boxer shorts get heavy as the door opened, he wanted to hide but there was no where. He tried to run, but could get nowhere as the maggot carpet acted like a squashy running belt, his legs running like the 'Road Runner' but with no forward movement.

The door opened, and there she stood, the Polly monster, six feet tall, an aged and weather bitten face, clothed in a day-glo pink shell suit. The hooded top contained a huge and sagging pair of mangy breasts, straining the nylon to its limits, and the trousers were caked in shit, emitting an odour like week old road kill and coagulated milk. Slime was dribbling at the corners of her thick lipstick caked and scabby lips, she turned to Phil and spoke, as she opened her mouth, effluence sprayed from her throat, covering him with its sticky and reeking putridness. "Are you ready to do some fucking work today you scruffy long haired little cunt, or are you going to fucking laze about like one of them fucking bastard useless fucking hippy student faggots?"

"Yes, yes I am ready to do some work for you today me luv." He replied fearfully.

"Well, don't just stand there looking like a bag of shit, fucking do something yer little twat!" She retorted.

Before he could start his next sentence, a new sound filled the air. It was the thunderous sound of the entire Megatonnage of World War Two that exploded down the street, causing a tidal wave of energy that metamorphosed the strange world, everything started to twist and change. The sky began to pulsate and reorganise itself into new forms and colours. He looked at the Polly monster and laughed loudly into her face. She just stared back, her face breaking out into a knowing smile. Then it happened, total white out.

Philip Jones raised a weary hand from under his warm duvet, fumbled for the Off switch on his loudly bleeping alarm clock on the bedside cabinet and swore. "Fuck it" He moaned. He was unaware that the chiming alarm had saved him from the Polly monster, although, only for an hour before he went to work. He raised his head to look at the time, the red display glowed back at him menacingly out of the darkness. It read 6:30.

"Fuck It all" he said despondently, whilst slowly and reluctantly easing his snug, duvet warmed body out of bed into the freezing cold of a dark and gloomy February morning. He shook violently as the cold air invaded his body, icicle fingers played a winter suite across his back. He quickly pushed his thin legs into his thermal long johns, then into his work jeans. "Shitting hell" He cursed, as he couldn't find his T-shirts, so he limped chillingly across the room to the light switch. He flicked and it illuminated the scene, allowing him to discover the where abouts of his tops, which were lying on the floor underneath a pile of the night before's pub soiled clothes. He took them out and sniffed them, quickly chucking the fresher of the T-shirts first, then the second freshest and finally the least freshest.

He kicked the night before's clothes into the laundry pile in the corner. Over the T-shirts he placed his favourite moth eaten, ropy fisherman's jumper. The morning start had not been helped by the hangover that he had acquired from the previous nights 'quiet game of pool and a pint', which also explained why his clothes were distributed in an unfamiliar pattern across the bed sit's floor. His luck was out and he had only been awake for about five minutes, he cursed at the realisation that there were no clean socks left; the words 'laundry trip' ricocheted around his head. Bugger it, he thought to himself, these'll do. He picked up a smelly pair of thick woollen hiking socks, pulled them over his feet and pulled on his combat boots. Once done he stood up and strode over too the window.

He drew the curtains back to reveal a sight that annoyed him profusely. In the blackness of the winter's morning he could see the street lamp lit glow of the frosted rooftops.

"Oh stroll on, seven more fucking months of this crap, seven more fucking months. Then I can say good-bye to all this crap. Watch out college, this boyo's gonna be coming in at full speed. It'll be good-bye Cardiff, hello fruit stall free world. And not a moment to soon either. Get a grip on yourself Phil, there's a long road ahead just yet, starting with breakfast." He often spoke to himself in the mornings, it helped him to orientate himself in the half awake hour before work. He had often considered that if anyone had been watching him during his monologues, especially with the accompanying facial acrobatics and grimaces, that they would have considered him a stark raving lunatic. For him though it was a necessity, it was the only way he had of getting his head straight at such an unnatural hour. He had always been a late night kind of person, the early mornings for work were a real nuisance. He could get through most of the day without talking to himself. The only other time it became a feature was when he came in drunk and alone.

He considered himself hard working, even though his appearance was scruffy and slacker like. He was no slacker though, it had never been a part of his philosophy. He worked hard, and had always done so since an early age, taking various part time jobs through out most of his school life in order to be able to afford the trendiest trainers and gear to keep in with the fashion set. He had not been without work for ten years even though he had been signing on and of for five. It did not matter to him how rubbish and demeaning a job was, he would stick at it. He thought that was his worst fault. The realisation had come recently, working on the fruit stall, it was a dead end, and he was starting to feel that he should be going somewhere further than head first into a brick wall. It would have to be the education route. He had left school with a few good A' levels, so getting into collage was no problem. The only problem had been that it had taken him five years to take the step forward.

After twenty three years he would finally be leaving his home city for longer than a weeks holiday. It was an exciting time for him. He had only recently turned twenty three, it what had been one of Cardiff's most infamous parties. The fires had been put out and the animals returned to the city farm. He was still carrying embarrassed regrets about his behaviour on the night, and the trail of destruction that had been left was very much unlike him. He choose to blame that on his friends influence. He was very proud of his tattoo though, a big Welsh red dragon on his right shoulder. Luckily, at the time. he had been too drunk to feel any pain, but he morning after, he woke up thinking that he had been stabbed in the back and forgotten about it.

Hard work had been his philosophy, at least it was the meaning to life that he advocated to his unemployed mates at the pub. But secretly, he was envious of their freedom, especially on mornings like this when all he felt like doing was staying in bed. He would do anything to save himself the tortuous day ahead, but his materialistic instincts drove him onwards and outwards every time. For all the pressure and annoyance that his current job was causing him, there was some light at the end of the tunnel. Seven more months and he would be free of 'Polly's Fruit and Veg' stall, and the nine hours a day, six days a week for twenty pound a day nightmare that was to be his life until then. The only good thing about it was that it was cash in hand, so he could still claim his dole and housing benefit until it was time to go to college.

He was sure that it would help himself greatly if he could save some money before going to college, but as of yet he had been able to save nothing. It was annoying, with all the money he was earning he should have been able to save a bomb. Constant nights out and the purchase of many records, videos and books had put pay to that though. He needed something to keep his spirits up though, and besides, he knew that he would be poor anyway for the amount of time he was to be a student, so he might as well make the most of it whilst he had it.

"Seven more dull fucking months," he said to himself softly, yet again reminding himself not to remind himself. The constant remembrance of the distant event made time drag like a wet towel across a carpeted floor. He had to though, as it was one of the few thoughts that got him through the toil of the day to day. "Seven more months," he thought to himself again, this time though, he allowed himself a slightly congratulating, early morning smile. As well as dragging him down with its timeless possibilities, it cheered him up as his distant redemption. He was a bit smug about the fact that he had a chance to get out, as many of his contemporaries had failed to get anywhere. It wasn't an arrogant smuggness though, just a self validating confidence, allowing himself the satisfaction for having worked hard all those years ago in school.

After some more early morning fumbling and thoughts, he left his untidy bedsit room for the familiar smell of the kitchen, where breakfast was waiting to be cooked. "Time for toast," he muttered to himself as he passed the locked doors of his sleeping house mates, "and down the stairs, quietly now Phil." The house's staircase was still dark, except for the illumination which came through the latticed, glass-panelled front door at the end of the receding front passage, supplied by the glow of the orange street lamps outside. It was playing dark patterns across the wall, which on one side shone a pale orange partial checker-board. He knew the house well, so he did not need the lights on to guide him, until he reached the kitchen, which was when the lights became a matter of public safety.

On arriving at the cluttered kitchen he began muttering to himself once more, "ah hum! Kettle, here kettle, kettle. Where to are you, yer fucking thing." It was not long before he found the kettle, which had drifted from its usual wire moorings to an unusual position on top of one of the cupboards. If he remembered correctly, Chris West, his friend, had chucked it up there the night before when he returned with Phil for some tea and toast. There was no particular reason for such an action, except just sheer high spirits.

He was glad that Chris was not living in the shared house with him, as he had often considered what an explosive situation that might be, especially with Chris' desires to get smashed as often as possible, and his own to agree to join him. Worse of all was that when ever Phil fancied a quiet night in, watching videos, drinking and mellowing out, then without failure Chris would turn up to ask him if he fancied a 'quiet pint and game of pool'. Phil found it hard to refuse his best friend, as his bank balance and rapidly decreasing brain cells would testify.

With the necessary errant items discovered, Phil set about making his tea and toast. It was not until the first caffeine rich sips of tea his stomach that he felt he was actually awake and moving, rather than still in bed and dreaming. As the caffeine made its awakening trip to his brain he could feel his hangover starting to subside slightly. It was not a major brain quaking hangover, just enough to thicken his head as he got himself dressed. "Seven more months," he smiled to himself then cursed for uttering the dreadful sentence once more. He thought to himself, 'long time to survive that is.' And then he spoke aloud, "especially when you feel like smashing your boss in the mouth for being such a stupid bitch."

He was referring to the dreaded Polly, The female owner of the stall he was working on. It was a joke about smashing her in the mouth as he was not a violent person. She wound him up in many ways though, pouring scorn on everything he loved, degrading the whole spirit of further education in a mere few words, and totally misunderstanding any form of life that did not suit her own.

Phil mused that her greatest pleasure was to piss on his dreams and ambitions from a great height. She would constantly pontificate on how much of a waste of money students and colleges were, as well as how it was dangerous to have to many black people in her precious country as they spread diseases and took all the hard working peoples money and jobs. Also on her 'I've worked to 'ard and to long to 'ave my money take 'un by those bastard,' were gays, senile old people, shoplifters competing fruit 'n' veg sales men, and worst of all were gay, black students, who were senile shoplifters whilst working part time in the fruit 'n' veg shop around the corner. Phil found it remarkable, she could utter crap, talk total bollocks and lie through her teeth just by saying the words, "hello dear, how are you today?" It was one quality for which he had the slightest begrudging admiration for, but her prejudiced sentiments rankled him to the core.

The dream image of her had dissolved into Vaseline smeared Polaroid's at the back of his mind. It had been a fairly accurate picture of his employer. She was six foot tall, in her late fifties, female and weather haggard. Polly was never seen on the stall without her day-glo pink shell suit. From what Phil could gather she had left school at the age of eleven in order to work on the family stall, it had been her life ever since. The family had owned the plot of land on the side street curb side, next to the junction with a minor main road for many years. The stall had changed numerous times, but its position had remained fixed. It was Polly's patch. Her early start on the stall was perhaps the main reason why her outlook on life was almost fascist like. She had not read a book since school, and her only form of information was the gossip and slander of the stall regulars. Further prejudicing her were the years of early morning starts to go the market for the days produce, too much work all day long, too much sun in the summer and too much cold in the winter.

Polly's worst side could be seen with the mention of the word shoplifter. She was fanatical about them. Her word for them was 'oysters', which served a double purpose, both as code word for when they were present and a moment of intellectual clarity on her behalf; she thought herself clever for coming up with the term. It had confused Phil terribly when he had started working on the stall. He was constantly on the look out for deadly and fearful sea food at the sound of Polly's loud and excited yells. "Quick Phil! Oyster! Oyster! Get out there son," she would yell at him at the sight of a doddery old lady a hundred yards down the street. She eventually explained to him that 'oysters' sounded a bit like hoisters, which in turn reminded her of the act of shoplifting. It was her moment of supreme pride, for thinking of something that a potential student had not.

Long days and weeks did she try to pique Phil's ego with her supreme wit and intelligence, although she never realised that spelling cauliflower and potatoes wrongly on the hand written price signs soon discharged anyone else's mental inferiority. He had tried to point out the many spelling mistakes a number of times, but she would not have it, she knew best. Any other fears about her intellectual prowess were soon dispersed by her neurotic ramblings and dumb grunts, which punctuated her lengthy fascist monologues on old lady Jones', husband's, mistress', son's shoplifting black student girlfriend.

As Phil sipped his tea, he tried to estimate the number of times he had been sent out after the 'oysters'. It was usually tipping down with sheets of icy rain when he had to go out and guard the produce laden side shelf of the stall. On seeing the feared 'oysters' she would get herself in an emotional furore and shout at him, "get out by those cauliflower Phil, yur comes a fucking oyster, fuckin' bastards, taking my hard earned, I don't stand 'ere for twelve hours a day, six days a week to watch them do that to me, I don't! Go on boy, what are you fuckin' standing there for, quick, they're coming."

On her command he would have to go out and stand guard over the twenty five pence cauliflower, using subterfuge to make it look like he was just doing his job and not spying. He would pretend that he was sweeping up the loose and fallen leaves and pieces of fruit that the council frowned upon. It got to the point that he had to look out for imaginary cabbage leaves, which he would vigorously beat back with the broom head. The floor was always spotless as he had been out many times the same day already, sweeping and spying on the customers who bustled around the side shelves to fight for the best swedes and carrots.

It always irked Phil that he had never seen a customer actually steal something, no matter how observant and inconspicuous he was. After it was quiet he would report back to her about the non thefts, which would anger her further as she told him that she saw them through the window, and they stole two swedes and a cauliflower. She would get irate, so he would ask her if she wanted him to chase after the old robbers and get it back. She always declined, making some excuse about it not being right, or she may have been mistaken. It was a ritual which he pursued many times a day, Polly would forget about it minutes after wards, but it would leave him seething by the end of the wind blown and rain soaked day. As hard as he had tried, he had never once seen one of them manage the extremely clever and difficult trick of stuffing two three lb. swedes, and a large cauliflower into an already bulging shopping bag. "Maybe they've got TARDIS pockets," he mused to himself as he finished off the last of his tea.

As he sat eating his toast, he could not keep Polly out of his mind. If he did not hate so much then people would surely think him in love. He constantly spoke about her to his various friends when they went to the pub. It had got to the point that Chris had tried to gag him on several occasions, getting angry with his constant moaning and banal story telling. She was not all bad though, he admired her sly tricks that she had played on some of the people around her.

His particular favourite was when she sent old Liz Evans, who was not too bright, over to the chemists to get her a can of the new German hair spray known as 'Twinkle Twat'. The look on Liz's face after returning from the chemists and realising that she had been set up was unforgettable. She cursed Polly with a stream of filthy expletives that seemed unworldly coming from such a meek old lady. Only the week before, Polly had sent the thick young lad who worked part time on the stall shifting sacks of spuds, to the hardware shop for a long weight. He had asked her how long she wanted one, to which she gestured with her hands and said, "oh, about that long." She had tried to get Phil with the old "get me a sky hook" routine, but he had been wise to it. He smiled at the thoughts of the various jokes she had played. The smile soon disappeared when he realised that he was due in work in half an hour; and besides, she was still a thick fascist slave driver, jokes or no jokes.

His breakfast consumed, he got up from the dish and cigarette ash covered table, and deposited his last clean plate onto the mountainous pile of dirty washing in the sink. His house mates were slack when it came to kitchen cleanliness, which suited him down to the ground. Something needed to be done though, or else the environmental health would soon be visiting. Phil considered buying some disposable plates, cups and cutlery, but he couldn't bring himself to being that lazy. The other house mates had an excuse, they were students; he was a hard working young man though, so he couldn't let himself sink to that level of slobbery. The morning awaking fuzz had almost lifted, so he left the lethargy of the musty kitchen to freshen himself up.

Phil took his pink toothbrush out of the cup on the ramshackle kitchen cabinet, loaded it with a mint mass, and began to scrub away at his gunge coated teeth. The coating of night smeg and toast soon began to dissolve as the tooth paste dribbled out of his mouth. He looked up at the mirror above the sink, admiring his not too unhandsome features, now besmirched by the white toothpaste goatee. He waggled his toothbrush like a cigar, impersonating Groucho Marx, and garbled too himself, "ah ha, only another seven months little lady." His was proud of his weather beaten features, which where becoming more rugged as the weeks went on; the badge of hard work, out in the open, sweeping up non-existent cabbage leaves. He spat out the reminder of the white froth, splashed handfuls of cold water over his face, and returned to his room for a quiet ten minutes before leaving for work.

He entered the room and headed straight for his comfy old battered chair in the corner, next to the window. On the way he kicked the pile of dirty clothes, angry at its smelly uncleanness and the frustration of having to go the laundry that evening. He picked up his packet of Silk Cut from the dresser, pulled one out and lit it up inhaled to the base of his lungs. As he sat back, he muttered to himself for the umpteenth time, "seven more fucking months, and I'm out of here boyo." This time though the words were tinged with a melancholy, resigned acceptance. The Gas central heating had just switched itself on. It was chugging mercilessly in the background, like the hardened arteries of one of Polly's aged and senile 'oysters'. It had begun to fill the room with heat, but its benefit was to late for Phil, who was already snug under his many layers of clothes. He hated this time of the morning, as it was the thoughtful prelude to another day's bump and grind. That evening he would have to go the laundry, and he hoped the Chris would call around while he was out, allowing him the chance of a quiet evening to read and listen to music. After the mad rush of frantic evenings, it would be the balm he needed to help him face the rest of the week in work.

He puffed thoughtfully, and tapped the cigarette into the old wooden egg cup which doubled as an ashtray. He looked at the posters on his wall, annoyed by the mocking sight of his Velvet Underground one. He would have to take it down, the Warhol image of the giant yellow banana was to much to take at that time of morning. He tutted, then imagined where about up Polly's anatomy he could ram a banana of that size. It cheered him up for the moments he could picture her walking around with a giant yellow tail protruding from her bright pink jogger bottoms. The image shattered, the temptation to produce many more grotesque fantasies before work was appealing. He stopped his mind from fantasising, as it would just make the rest of the day disappointing with it being unable live up to his depraved imaginings.

"One day," he spoke to himself softly, "you'll 'ave yourself a tidy job and you'll know what your live is about. That's all I want out of life, is to be secure and know where its going. When I do, I'll sit back, with a magic Cuban cigar in my hand and say 'Phil, what the fuck where you doing with your life back then, getting up at the crack of dawn, freezing my fuckin' bollocks off for a pittance.' Yep, I'll have a nice glass of expansive whisky in my hand, puffing on me big cigar and I'll wonder to myself, why? Why did I take that crap from that stupid woman. All that get your hair cut; watch out for those black bastards; what do you want to go to fucking college for; and go and watch those bastard oysters. Stupid, thick, inbred cow. All those apples and pears, nice and juicy, twenty pence a pound, when I could have been like Chris and gone on the dole. I'd 'ave read a few more books for college and been ready to go. But no, 'ad to go out, work and freeze my 'nads off, and just to put up with that abuse from her."

He took another drag on his cigarette, and looked at it lovingly. He spoke to it, "mind you old friend, I wouldn't be smoking you, yer know. I'd be smoking a rollie. Ah well, things I do for money." He tried to think of one good reason why he shouldn't just quit the job and live on his dole money. The only answer he could give himself made him snigger. "'Cos your a grade one prat, Phil the dil', a stupid tit. That's you that is boyo," he said to himself humorously. He tried to think if he could get by without the money, but knew that he liked spending it to well on his weekly dose of new records, books, videos, fags, food and drinking sessions.

He took his last puff on the cigarette, and stubbed the glowing orange butt into the egg cup. He stood up, regretting heavily the loss of comfort from his favourite old chair, and made his way out of the room. After locking his door, he once more crept silently past the shut doors of his house mates. he could not help but wonder if any of the lads had pulled the night before, tucked away in their rooms with some unknown, slinky, well shaped, dusky, maiden. He knew the three students well though, so it was highly unlikely; knowing their sheer inability with members of the opposite sex.

The orange checkerboard pattern on the passage wall had started to dim and dissolve, as the first ultramarine patches of the pale dawn glowed through the glass panels of the front door. He opened it to be greeted by a wind that struck his face like a razored knuckle duster. "Fuck it all, just what I fucking needed," he moaned. Phil stepped back in and shut the door. He had forgotten his woolly gloves and flat cap. He ran back up stairs, this time not caring about waking his mates and their better than life imagined partners. He opened his door and entered to find his missing necessities. The temptation to leap back into bed was immense. He looked at his record collection, videos and books, and sighed. Moments later he was back downstairs, ready to face the icy grimness of the front door. He stepped out into the chill wind, shut the door behind him, and set off on the ten minute walk to work.

As he walked down the long streets that led to the barrow, the terraced houses acted like a wind tunnel, funnelling all the hatred of a frozen winters morning into Phil's bare face. The frost of the long bitter night hung thick on the roofs of the grim houses, thinning out on the houses with insufficient loft insulation. The eerie dawn light crept timidly over the white iced roofs. He turned the corner into the street where the stall was, two hundred yards at the opposite end. The glowing patch of warmth stood out like a beacon at the end of the dark street, spilling yellow light out of its door and front hatch and illuminating the cold concrete around it.

Directly behind the barrow stood a cross-roads, where the quiet side street which held the stall met with one of the Cardiff's minor main roads. The bisecting main road was just coming to life, the odd car streaking past on its reluctant journey to another days toil.

As he got closer to the stall, he heard Polly's voice, shouting at the young assistant who was putting the potatoes on the front shelf, "come on you, yer lazy cunt, get a fucking move on." She spotted Phil, as he trembled towards the stall, and stood in the doorway, a dark silhouette; a familiar smile crossed her face.